


lotus-eater

by redphlox



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: 'Just Friends', Asexuality, F/M, Modern Siren AU, Pining, siren au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 16:54:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10391472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redphlox/pseuds/redphlox
Summary: Maka should have known nothing good could come from making big life decisions on too little sleep. When she breaks her own promise and sings to Soul on his birthday, will this slip up bring them closer, or will her secret break their bond? A modern siren au. SoulxMaka.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [soundofez (ficsofez)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=soundofez+%28ficsofez%29).



> this was supposed to be a valentine’s day oneshot for @soundofez but now it turned into a multi-part thing that’s very late, as per usual, but it’s here now (and on ffn and ao3)! shoutout to @professor-maka , @the-brightest-fell , and @thefishywitchy for the support and eyes and patience :) ALSO be ready for asexuality talk in later parts!

In the four am serenity, a solid blackness stares at them through the small window above the sink while a surreal yellow light surrounds them from above. It heightens everything, from the content exhaustion between them to the mess they've created. Spots of flour blanket the things Maka loves most - the smooth marble surfaces of the Evanses’ kitchen, her best friend’s fingers, the soft cotton of his shirt, and the curve of his eyebrow.

Even her lashes are coated with it. Flashes of white flutter in and out of her vision as she blinks and screws up her face at his request.

In response, Soul leans back to rest his elbows on the counter, the dollop of pink frosting she had painted over his dimple moving with his sheepish grin. “That’s my one wish. For you to sing me ‘happy birthday’.”

Instinct means Maka echoes him without thinking - leaning forward to stay close, hands splayed on either side of him for balance. They’re in sync, one never too far behind the other, but what numbs Maka’s mind right now is the view from here. Normally he towers over her, but at the moment he's perched on the bar stool, ethereal in her shadow as she hovers over him, and it's both intoxicating and humbling.

The sleep in his eyes is hypnotic.

“I don't sing,” she says.

“Please?”

Maka only resists his gravity enough to straighten and reach for the cake they baked and decorated together between fits of laughter and snark, finger leaving a dent along its side. She then safely returns to her place, one thigh wedged between his knees, wasting no time in smearing the icing across the tip of his nose.

“I _can’t_ sing, Soul.”

He’s more still than a canvas as she brushstrokes pastel pink on both his cheeks and the spot between his brows, where the skin is rumpled with worry. “Why?”

Too many reasons exist for that, but mostly - mostly, because she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. Instead of opening Pandora’s box, though, she settles for a neutral, “Well… I don’t have the best voice.”

“... I can't imagine there's something you're _not_ good at,” is his innocent musing, blinking at her.  

When she shakes her head, it feels like she’s letting him down. “I’m not _perfect_ , Soul.”

There’s that roguish grin of his, making her heart do feverish somersaults. “Pfft. I never said you were. I meant - I don’t care what your singing sounds like. It’s _you_ , and that’s what matters.”

Sometimes his sweetness is too much, like a mouthful of sugar that won't dissolve fast enough and stays clumped on her tongue, reminding her that too much of a good thing could lead to disaster. Soul’s tenderness is borderline bitter, fatal, _threatening_ even, because an overdose of anything has the potential to be lethal.

And maybe that’s what she deserves, too, a little risk to her health, but she settles with accepting just the right amount of Soul’s love: enough to never let her forget she’s a fraud who’s decided to bask in his softness until both time and the truth are out.

So far, he’s clueless, thank goodness. If he _knew why_ she can't sing, nothing would be the same, so she hasn’t told him, and _won’t_ \-  

Hell is the ‘what if’s’ not allowing her to rest. What if she could be promised that nothing would change if she sang to him? Sometimes she thinks she’s weak to temptation, just like her papa, and the unwelcome comparison shakes some sanity back into her, _fast._

 

To distract herself from the lump clotting up her throat (is that his sweetness again, a double edged sword?) she dabs the rest of the frosting on his cheeks, self-conscious under his searching gaze. He’s her childhood best friend, her number one supporter, her strength - his undying devotion to her is his choice alone, and she can’t bear changing that.

Back and forth, back and forth. Should she sing, should she not?

 

What _if_?

Maka hates that she’s the one responsible for the trouble spelled out on his face as he makes a lazy fist and presses it against her cheek, barely rubbing his knuckles into her skin to bring her back to reality. “You still there? Are you seeing ghosts or something?”

“Just you.” She nods, failing to offer a convincing smile. “I’m just looking at you, not thinking or anything.”

Soul frets over her with such selfless love it makes her feel faint. She's probably taken a chunk of precious years off his life over the span of their friendship, is probably hammering another nail in his coffin as he fries his brain trying to diagnose her sudden distance. “You don't look okay, though...”

Shrugging, Maka presses a finger against his lips to shush him. “Just tired, is all...”

Maybe it's the sleep deprivation, but she finds herself believing they're the last souls left on this earth - just herself, her best friend, and static humming louder the longer they stare at each other. That is her ideal world, one she's fantasized about far too many times when life isn’t going the way she pictured it. Given the impossible, energy-draining, possibly out-ing situation, it’s natural that she tricks herself into believing in it right now, but even that feels _wrong_.

It all comes down to being perpetually distressed. She's just so bone-deep _tired_ she can barely think of anything but leading him away by the wrist to seek refuge under his comforter before the morning light breaks through the black curtains he always keeps shut in his room. Safety means being between his sheets, and right now she needs to be quarantined there. A healthy bout of _platonic_ spooning would be beneficial too, and if she’s a bad person for knowing that Soul’s a sucker for cuddling and thus won't reject her, then she’ll proudly wear that label.

She tugs on his arm with desperate haste, taking a step toward the stairwell. “It’s bed time for us, anyway--”

“Wait, wait - what about my birthday? And my song?” The genuine disappointment in his voice stalls her mid-stride. “And my cake?”

She frowns, feeling her resolve dissipate. “It’s late.”

He’s always been better than her at pouting. His is frustratingly adorable and leagues above hers in the persuading category. “But my birthday wish…”

_Of course_ he knows this is her signature move when things get heavy and muddled and she doesn’t want to deal with the headache of sorting it out - to run away, to stop thinking for even the briefest of moments. Sleep is her escape, and while Soul has never turned down an invitation to drift off together, whether it be in the middle of the day or hours after an appropriate bedtime, he’s never let her get away with hiding from herself, either.

Ironically, she’s in the habit of dreaming to both get closer to him _and_ forget about the one thing she can't reveal, and all she can do is hope he won’t edge too close to her secret. He’s smart, though, so he’s prying a little, expecting to hit something that will make her wall crumble. It’s just like him to be attentive and curious and watchful. Brand him _too_ intuitive, like he knows there’s something she’s keeping from him without fully realizing it himself.

Either way, she feels an argument budding between them as resentment rushes through her like a storm - all of it aimed toward her legacy and lineage, but it comes out directed at Soul anyway. What hurts the most is she _can’t_ give him what he wants despite all the tantalizing ‘what if’s’: a birthday song.

Saying it aloud feels like torture though, despite her voice being firm as she proclaims it, looking at him straight in the face: “I’m not _singing_ okay? I suck at it. I’m not a karaoke machine so you can take your pity party somewhere else. I’m tired and I want to sleep, and I want you to sleep with me, okay? That’s your gift for now. Take it or leave it.”

“Okay.”

She opens her mouth - _I just don’t want to sing ok? Can you stop attacking me about it?_ \- and something like a squawk comes out when her brain finally processes his words. “What did you just say?”

His response is laughter. Maka stares at him and he just guffaws, sharp teeth and boyish grin almost unreal in this weird lighting, the lateness making her senses perceive things funny. Often she thinks he’s more mythical than she is, what with his eyes the same shade as passion and his hair so white it blinds when they’re out on the town, the sunshine beating down on their heads.

Screw him and his voice, which is something mesmerizing, too. Even the shortest and most unexpected of his replies manage to hook her. “I said ‘okay.’”

Now it’s her turn to drill him. “That’s it? No smartass reply? No complaining?”

“Nahhh... I mean, you’ve never sung me happy birthday before, and we _do_ sleep together all the time, but I don’t like change.”

“I… don’t like it, either.” A little voice in her head mutters that change could be good, though - it could lead to another kind of closeness, a more romantic one. This moment could make one of her ‘what ifs’ _real_.

It’s a dangerous insinuation, and it lights a spark, a _bad_ one.

Soul pokes her on the forehead with his free hand in a way that lets her know he’s trying to diffuse the situation. “Unless you want to argue? Because I’m always down for a screaming match. I throw my best burns at fuck o’clock, the odds are in my favor.”

No witty reply comes out of her because she’s too busy gathering her courage. It’s when his arm is no longer a taut rope in her hands, resisting to be pulled away, that she realizes how much influence she already has on him. He’s loose, limber, _malleable_. They’re used to playing follow the leader, and he’s looking to her for guidance even though they’re in _his_ house and it’s _his_ birthday and today’s supposed to be about _him_ and _she_ should be along for the ride, not the other way around.

Maka knows he’s not keeping track, that there’s no deep-seated resentment toward her, but she can’t help but feel like the worst best friend for not singing a silly song to him. And her winning, can-do attitude can’t have that hanging over her pride. Neither can her feelings for Soul, even though that goes both ways.

It’s just - _complicated_. The ‘what if’s’ are too good to pass up. They spread like a deliberate wildfire, consuming what’s left of the promise she had made to herself years ago.

“C’mon, Grumpy,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulders and gently pushing her - to his room probably, already having accepted that she won’t even hum a childish, harmless tune to commemorate that he’s lived another year.

She could scream at herself. But instead, Maka tries to gulp down a knot that won’t budge, and digs her heels into the pristine floorboards. She knows what she’s going to say before the idea has time to fully unfold in her head. Maybe she’s known her whole life this moment would come, and she’s been preparing for it since kindergarten when she got her first detention because she blew a resentful raspberry at her music teacher, who just didn't understand that _no means no_ when it came to singing.

Funny that their roles reverse so quickly, with Maka the one unwilling to budge this time. “Wait, wait. I’ll do it.”

He looks at her, half-listening. “Huh?”

“You’re right. Who needs sleep? We’ll light your candles and I’ll sing you your birthday song right now!”

Mildly curious brows hike up and disappear beneath messy bangs. He’s in dire need of a haircut, not a sugar rush, not a song that could change him, _them_. “And we’ll eat the cake, too?”

This time, the smile playing on her lips is real despite the hammering in her chest. “Of course.”

Things move in slow motion after that. Soul doesn’t bother wiping the frosting off his face because he’s beside himself as Maka takes her time sticking the candles on the red velvet cake, his face brightening the room with another type of light that can’t be seen, only felt. Maka blames the dizziness overtaking her, making her feel like she’s been awake for thousands of years, bottling up her feelings for him even longer.

If Soul notices that her hands tremble as she lights the candles, he doesn’t say anything. He watches closely, though, diligently enough to make her wonder if the heat on her skin is from the flame for his stare.

Now her pulse is in her throat as she tries to blink the drowsiness away. “Ready?”

“Wait - let me come up with a wish.”

_Too late to back out now_ , she tells herself instead of admitting she hopes his singing makes him happy, not even hearing a faraway ticking of a clock. The Evanses should have one on the wall behind her, but she’s paralyzed by giddy fear and can’t turn her head to investigate - maybe its battery ran out?

She’s not thinking right, and it all boils down to the fact that sleeplessness is dangerous. Insomnia tends to reduce her into a sap - a teary-eyed, rambly, feelsy mess with no self control or sense of shame or _boundaries_ , though it's not like the lines are clear anymore, what with the two of them practically sutured at the hip.

They’re best friends, after all. It’s no secret that she’s practically moved into his bedroom and has claimed a side of his bed, keeping a book on his nightstand. She feels the safest with Soul, awake or not - it must be something about his soul’s wavelength pounding distantly near hers. He's like her guardian angel, always providing a shoulder to cry on or working her last nerve, drawing out extreme emotion from her, which is lifesaving in itself.

As usual, Soul seems to be the only one in the room thinking right, never breaking eye contact as he decides he’s ready.

_Sacrifices_. Maka must make sacrifices to grow their friendship. All those stigmas about sirens aren’t true, even if she’s a fourth of one thanks to her papa. Soul Eaters with no moral code, taking what’s not theirs and keeping it; Body Snatchers who enjoy flesh excessively, who dirty anyone they touch. None of it’s real.

It’s just _singing_. Harmless, innocent, an act of love. Sirens love _saving_ souls, as papa constantly reminds her - not eating, not snatching, not collecting. Saving.

Soul clears his throat. “You don’t have to, you know.”

Her vision is blurring, and she’s not sure why. “What?”

“Singing.” He motions at the cake and shrugs. “You don’t have to. I was just being an ass. I’ll still make my birthday wish before we go to bed, though.”

“No - no, I want to!”

Does she, though? Maka has seen what it’s done to mama, and she’s facepalmed enough at her papa’s scandals to know that the consequences of singing could be negative, but there’s that one sliver of a chance this could turn out positive, right?

_What if_!

Maka can’t tell if she’s being a hopeless romantic, an overzealous optimist, or a fool. “I want to… it’s your birthday.”

“I only want what you want,” is all he says, and it hits the soft spot she has for him so accurately it hurts, because that’s all she wants, too. That’s why they work so well: because there aren’t any conditions or hesitations or reservations about their love for one another, because they’re both committed to making their relationship last.

Except, today feels... _off_.

It's his birthday, he's been trying to convince her to take a daytrip away from their eclectic city by the sea, she's been resisting his excited and tantalizing points by shuffling their attention to swimming and feasting at all his favorite buffets, and something’s bound to break in this quiet reality-altering late hour. Aside from their playful arguing, it's been a perfect day, and not just because she thinks her planning is top quality - it's evident in the way he's been grinning all day, unreserved and honest.

She even dares to think she’s brightened up his mood a little bit, because melancholy tends to worm its way into him around this time of year.

So why is she tearing up?

_Happy birthday to you… happy birthday to you…. Happy birthday dear Soul…_

Yeah, she’s definitely crying now, but she doesn’t rush through, doesn’t skip out on repeating it one more time, maybe twice on accident since she’s so out of it. By the end, her hands have found their way to her face, covering up her tears, _hiding_ her, but she begs herself to be brave and peeks out between her fingers at him.

“Fuck,” he says under his breath, not blinking, not moving. Maka has never seen him this focused, entranced even, his pupils wide, consuming the color of his irises until they’re a barely-there rim. They have her thinking _when you stare into the abyss the abyss stares back_ and it’s nothing reassuring at all. “Wow, Maka. _Fuck._ ”

The aftermath is everything her nightmares had promised, the energy between them shifting with a sigh into something unreadable and _different_ , with no indication if it’s for the better or the worse. Her insides are a muted fireworks show: rattling and exploding with emotion color coded in angry reds and ominous blues and revolting greens, the yellows making her blood pool in her feet, the white numbing her.

It’s all in her head, obviously, because there’s nothing but darkness outside and weird lightning where they’re standing, but the way he’s _looking_ at her - sure, she’s caught glimpses of him staring at her _that way_ before, and she’s never known what to make of them, but now he’s not bothering to mask any of it.

She’s sobered up a little bit, too, meeting his eyes. This was a mistake - she can already tell by the way the current between them changes.

It only makes sense. All that otherwordly, feel-good vibe between them only existed during the day, when the light bathed everything in a layer of hope and her heart felt full as Soul slipped his fingers through hers every time they navigated the boardwalk. Now the heaviness of the late hour hits her and it's obvious she shouldn’t have granted his birthday wish - and now she can’t face what she’s done. Nor can she look at him to offer an apologetic wince, because suddenly anything but the deep red of his eyes is interesting.

“Maka?”

Heartbreak is smeared all over her face, and she can't look at him. “I’m okay, I’m okay,” she sniffles, ignoring his napkin offering and wiping her own tears away, laughing shakily. “Go ahead, make your wish!”

The flickering candlelight throws his eyes into deep shadows as he squints, and he only pauses one, two, three, four seconds before leaning over and pursing his lips, blowing them all out successfully.

Maybe Maka should have made a wish instead.

Nothing’s wrong at first. Soul gifts her one of those rare open grins, dimple and all, and he protests and makes her stand on her tip-toes to clean his face of the frosting she painted on him. He doesn’t try to kiss her like she’s seen some people react to a siren’s singing, doesn’t fall into a heap at her feet, begging her to let him rub her shoulders or do her errands. He doesn’t even get that look on his face again.

Good.

Well - she’d like some of that, but not _because_ she sang. It’s unclear if there’s even been any effect until they’re upstairs and Soul insists that he doesn’t mind clearing out one of his drawers to make room for her clothes, since she stays here so much. Maka only gives him a sidelong look before spitting out her mouthwash.

And then, it’s confirmed: she’s messed up their friendship.

“Hey,” he says in the dark once they’re settled in his bed, arms around each other’s shoulders. “Didn’t mean to pressure you about the singing. I’m sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine!” God help her. She can’t be honest with him and it’s bound to splinter them apart, deliberately and slowly. “... I’m... self-conscious about my singing.”

“You didn’t sound like a dying banshee clawing at a chalkboard or anything.”

Fingers in his hair, she gives his locks a light hearted tug. “That’s awfully descriptive. Have you been thinking a lot about this?”

She’s met with charged silence. _Oh_. All of the air in the room seems to dissolve, the darkness lapping at his windows more menacing than soothing. If they were the last two souls left on Earth it wouldn’t matter that she’s a Soul Eater - hell, she wouldn’t be ready to sacrifice anything and everything to be a Lotus Eater instead, carefree and effervescent.

“Hey Maka?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thanks for the birthday song… it means a lot. I love you, you know that, right?”

Her blood runs cold. This isn’t _her_ Soul - he’d never go all mushy on her like this without following it up with a well-intended tease or cheeky remark about the width of her ankles. He sounds _so vulnerable_ , so honest, so available; this wasn’t how she wanted it to happen. Maka opens her eyes wide, wide, wide but can’t see anything but the dark outline of his figure next to hers.

 

Between wondering if she’ll ever stop being afraid of the dark, and feeling like she’s lost him in the process of keeping him, she closes her eyes and prays she falls asleep before it gets worse.

  
“I know. I love you too, Soul...”


End file.
